Wild Man by grace mcgrade

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I don’t want you

To get lost in me

Or even to get found in me

I don’t want a fixer upper

Or to hold your hand

And be your surrogate mother.


I don’t want a

Politically correct

Porsche driving

Nine to Five

“What time, What place?”

Fine Wine and Dinner

Missionary Style

Man


I want second hand jeans

Midnight chaos

Anywhere, anytime

Morning wrestles and in the woods

Once a day

Twice a day

All the time


\\\\Not sex, Love


I don’t want agreement

I want lofty rebuttles

Tape me down to the earth

Hand to feet

Mouth to Mouth

Shoulder rocking laughter fits

Blaring brilliantly

Untamed

Man

With a pathological need to understand the driving forces of all consciousness

Exposing lucid, creative madness-

Like the unhinging of passageway doors

Like the unclasping of a belt buckle


A mutual blending and fusion of madness,

Equal parts godly and erotic;

Leading to everywhere

And nowhere

Ending in death and through to eternity.

Intertwined like Celtic knots

Folding lazer origami

Intricately interconnected and delicately detailed

High on design and wet on holiness.

you can make the same love to a thousand women, or make love to me a thousand different ways.

you and me, we were raised by the wild.

remember what it's like to get free and i’ll be waiting on the other side of paradise.




Celestial Rememberings by grace mcgrade

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I have a case of the celestial rememberings again. Being intuitive is not like being a fortune cookie or a crystal ball, it is much more like gauging the delicate interconnectivity of all things. It's much more like seeing what someone will become and simultaneously what someone was before all of this, this mass hallucination of forgetfulness. It can hurt.

It is the most painful when someone you love, some you perhaps had a soul contract with- chases the forgetting.

The veils between this world and the others disintegrate around me, like withered, ancient lace, fragile enough to see through. I have moments of feeling like I  am in ten places at once, of feeling layers peel back like curtains, revealing more and more truth-just when I thought I had arrived at stable conclusions. I need to be in constant communication with the cosmos, or else they find strange, bizarre and discombobulating means to communicate with me.

What am I supposed to say? I am sorry, I don’t fully live on earth. You see, it’s hard for me here, and not what I am used to. I am forgetful about things, like keys and iphone chargers- and money- whatever that is, anyway. I don’t really understand why people are so mean here, why they are so abrasive, like sandpaper on skin. I forget about things like taxes and scheduling and time, but I remember why I am here.To remind people, that when they are hurting, when they are on their knees, or their last dollar, and it feels like the world is poisonous, they are still magic. Magic is the end of separation. The end of separation from you, and what you desire. And in that way, it is not so different from love.



Take me back home. Where the land is unbroken and the soil is rich and clean again. Where the souls you signed up with never betray you and the clouds have no toxins. Where the winds are perfumed with velvet pinks, where dreams are tangible, where everything is laughter. Where madness is a shared thing again. Where time is different, and there are no thoughts of the past nor the future, just one, continuous, perfect moment. Where choruses of stars sing back and where fairies, like me, don’t get trampled on or lost above ground. Where there are no words for pain or heartache or suffering. Because they simply don’t exist.


Vampire Boys by grace mcgrade

In fairy tales, they speak of monsters and love, monsters and love as two seperate things. They don’t speak about love being a disease, bone-crushing, infectious. Like a wildfire, destroying everything in it's path. Or how sometimes monsters are dressed as beautiful young men, disguised as lovers, who come right to your doorstep. Like flowers of premonition.  How some monsters have shiny smiles, and glistening eyes, who say things like “Please forgive me,” and “I love you.” How sometimes, monsters and love become the same thing, and you let someone drain you until you are empty, and they are full.      He lived in a cave and he felt like a cave. A cave amidst canyons bleeding wildflowers and hallucinatory purples. He felt like a cave carrying centuries, his chest reverberating with a song you couldn’t name, but you knew from somewhere. His smoky throat and unbalanced breath let out fumes that immobilized me, like airborne paralysis.He held me fiercely, as if we only had one night before he had to go back, return to the deepest cave, evaporate, tumble back into darkness. It was sick, it made me sick, how much I wanted him. He was as fucked up as I was. Can you imagine the two of us together? Fucking each other up. In the morning I would wake up trying to recall how far down we went, which subterranean chamber I had abandoned bits of myself in,this time.     He was alien, a hundred folded galaxies, funnelled tightly through a body, like an ill fitting suit.  Wearing seven jackets from different decades and cowboy boots. When I didn’t think about him I only thought in planets, and in that way, I think he kept me here. I saw him fully and it terrified him.I was an echo of him, when he didn’t want a mirror or a magnifying glass. He wanted a distraction, he wanted entertainment, and I just wanted to see him get free. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, I wanted to be his epiphany.     I gave up on fragility and subtlety long ago, but I feel too much, and he didn’t protect me. I would have given him my heart and my eyes and woven a tapestry of all my favorite feelings and handed them to him, if he had just stuck around and kept kissing me. The kisses that sent electroshocks through my vertebrae, kisses with nanoseconds of blue lights, flickering in my minds eye, like old film on a screen. Instead he dragged me to hollow, dark places. At 3 am all the pretty people, all the models, look like waxed faced corpses and I am so sensitive, I see everyone’s sadness. Hollow, Hollowood. Empty.

In fairy tales, they speak of monsters and love, monsters and love as two seperate things. They don’t speak about love being a disease, bone-crushing, infectious. Like a wildfire, destroying everything in it's path. Or how sometimes monsters are dressed as beautiful young men, disguised as lovers, who come right to your doorstep. Like flowers of premonition.

How some monsters have shiny smiles, and glistening eyes, who say things like “Please forgive me,” and “I love you.” How sometimes, monsters and love become the same thing, and you let someone drain you until you are empty, and they are full.



He lived in a cave and he felt like a cave. A cave amidst canyons bleeding wildflowers and hallucinatory purples. He felt like a cave carrying centuries, his chest reverberating with a song you couldn’t name, but you knew from somewhere. His smoky throat and unbalanced breath let out fumes that immobilized me, like airborne paralysis.He held me fiercely, as if we only had one night before he had to go back, return to the deepest cave, evaporate, tumble back into darkness. It was sick, it made me sick, how much I wanted him. He was as fucked up as I was. Can you imagine the two of us together? Fucking each other up. In the morning I would wake up trying to recall how far down we went, which subterranean chamber I had abandoned bits of myself in,this time.


He was alien, a hundred folded galaxies, funnelled tightly through a body, like an ill fitting suit.

Wearing seven jackets from different decades and cowboy boots. When I didn’t think about him I only thought in planets, and in that way, I think he kept me here. I saw him fully and it terrified him.I was an echo of him, when he didn’t want a mirror or a magnifying glass. He wanted a distraction, he wanted entertainment, and I just wanted to see him get free. I didn’t want to be his girlfriend, I wanted to be his epiphany.


I gave up on fragility and subtlety long ago, but I feel too much, and he didn’t protect me. I would have given him my heart and my eyes and woven a tapestry of all my favorite feelings and handed them to him, if he had just stuck around and kept kissing me. The kisses that sent electroshocks through my vertebrae, kisses with nanoseconds of blue lights, flickering in my minds eye, like old film on a screen. Instead he dragged me to hollow, dark places. At 3 am all the pretty people, all the models, look like waxed faced corpses and I am so sensitive, I see everyone’s sadness. Hollow, Hollowood. Empty.

How To Keep Angels Alive by grace mcgrade

If you trust in your strangeness, your peculiar loveliness, and otherworldly magnetism when you are young, everything will come a lot quicker and you will save yourself suffering.

Light more candles and switch off lights. Open your senses as much as possible, you can do this with flowers or chocolate or sunsets, rubbing coconut oil over your skin, or painting your eyelids in blue glitter. Anything that makes your heart tickle and expand two or three inches further is good.

Walk and don’t drive, you’ll get more miracles that way. Remember the earth is your mother.

Say yes to all adventures that don’t make you sick.

Tend to plants, they build self esteem and make you prettier.

Dancing is an antidepressant. Yoga and meditation are antidepressants. Laughter is an antidepressant, and if you feel like you can’t, laugh anyway, until your fake laughter becomes funny.

Green things that grow from the earth are antidepressants, try to eat those every day. If you are heart broken surround yourself in green and pink.

TV and phones are depressants. Saying hurtful things are depressants. Pills too.

The highest status you can receive comes from being unconditionally lovely to everyone. Be outlandishly generous til it becomes an ongoing joke. You get more gifts from life that way. Reveal feelings (especially crushes) because life is too short to conceal  much, and honesty is the greatest high. Fall in love with someone who loves your mind as well as your body, and sees you as an entire universe, not just parts to pick up and put down. Turn dark feelings into paintings or dances or poems. Let your poetry be your scream and don’t censor yourself.

Avoid the following: genetically modified food, meat and dairy, fluoride, cocaine, and anyone blind to divinity. Love your hair although it is loud and tangles, your legs, although they extend beyond anyone elses, your button nose, your crooked spine, because all these things are divine. Focus less on looking like a barbie, barbie can’t write poems or channel- and more like being a Botticelli goddess, being your truest, most unapologetically soulful self. Treat yourself the way you want your world to treat you, and it will ripple out like silvery, pearly water, and all you will receive is luck and magic and beauty and wonder and truth-because thats what you are. Remember we are bound by blood and the way we treat ourselves is the way we treat each other.

Remember you are an actual angel.


Bathe You Away by grace mcgrade

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I tried to fix the pain with baths. Countless baths.

Trying to suspend my sorrow in holy water,

to fill myself with something

that was not you.

Drawing bath after bath, floating, dying to be submerged and held for hours on end.


Some with rose petals, witch hazel, sea salt, and opalic clouds of foam- to make you softer, to make me prettier.


Some were cunning. Those ones were dyed crimson, with dragons blood and jasmine, burning so hot that they stained my skin and left an afterglow, so I could seduce and lure you back, savagely, quickly.

There were bright ones, with honey and marigold, milk, lavender and amber- to draw the happiness out of you. To make your eyes light up at the sight of me, again. To help you remember.

Then there were ones with charcoal, brewed of blood and snakes venom, to purge you out of me.

The darkest, blackest things. To make me hard and strong.

And each time I would emerge, unquenched and dehydrated by you, seething.

It’s different now. There is a dissonance in knowing I am holy and being treated otherwise. It's too intense for you, with so much soul it seeps out of me, seeps out of my hands and fingers like rivers with the magnitude of stars. I did not come here to concern myself with the hearts of men. God is my drug dealer.

I long to stray back into the forest and rest amidst the woods and mountains and learn their secrets before anyone else’s.

To be mystically baffled by something bigger than you or me.

Only the earth can give me what I need.


DREAM ARCHITECT SEEKS EXISTENTIAL PRANKSTER by grace mcgrade

I am a scandalously honest skipping stone on the way to heaven, willing to sage your privates, take hikes in the astral plane and let you undress me in the forest.

A Mesmerizing cosmic lunar-tic looking for thrill thief with the soul of a musician and the wardrobe of a lottery winning pirate. Limited responsibilities and an excess of money and time are preferred. Should be woven of the silk of the most luminous stars. Emotionally articulate, and willing to read erotica on megaphones while riding through the Bible Belt on white horses.

A plus if you know the difference between The Greys and Pleiadians, or have any mediumistic qualities.


Toxic Karma by grace mcgrade

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When she touched him, she felt her hands run through him, like water. It was impossible to decipher where his feelings began and hers ended. It was impossible to tell if she longed for him or dreaded him. She wanted to torment him and also reward him. It was primal electricity, passionately cruel. It was remembering.

There was a haunt in the energetic familiarity. An intangible, non linear remembering in the feeling of his hands, his essence. They spoke of past lives, about myriads of lifetimes where two were bound. They didn’t speak of what to do when it made her ill. The weight of being bound by invisible rope, snaking into her gut like an infection that only she knew.

It was not enough to know this was not the first time, not enough to wait achingly for the image of him to not be so solid. She itched for the link to disintegrate and no longer torment her like a timeline only she could access. Even the thought of him felt like heavy flesh.

She had walked enough through his universe, leaving lasting, golden footsteps, through stages of innocent and reckless, tragic and erotic. She decided she could only cure herself with the sea.

She was as pale as the dead in the moonlight, and kicked off her clothes quickly, the tips of her red hair cascading brilliantly against her waist like wisps of gold. Her skin as luminescent as the changing of opals. Her eyes were full of candles, so unfixed that no man would ever know their color. She greeted the sea as an old friend, head slightly bent, before charging at it, eyes wild. There, she basqued, naked, in the honey of the moonlight that poured out onto the oceans flesh.

“I release you.”

She screamed into the sea, feeling a blazing wave of holiness clash up against her legs and waist and shoulder blades, until it almost swallowed her. In the infinite expanse of the ocean, the thought of him felt like a distant memory, only existing to serve as an aquatic mass she had once lost herself in.

She felt him turn from a wound, to liquid, to dust- til it fermented and turned to story.

Time consolidated the murmurs in her heart, and when she was ready, she sat down and wrote about them.

She's Crazy by grace mcgrade

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Oh her? She's crazy.

You can’t argue against being crazy without sounding crazy. The archetype of the “crazy girl” is the modern day equivalent to that of the witch. There is no defense against it. It's a new meta-mythology that you can’t argue with. The Crazy Girl. Does she send myriads of jealous texts late at night? Or did she try to throw herself off the balcony of the standard hotel? Doesn’t matter. Same thing. She's crazy. She has too many secrets and she talks too much about sex.


Reclaim the notoriety, provoke people with your absurdity, solely live based on moment to moment impulse and melodramatic displays of emotion. People will always be afraid of watching women let their emotions out, as if they only unleash only bad things. They will tell you that you are too defiant, too tempestuous, too difficult.

Well, fuck that.

Most people are bored, and they need something to talk about. It makes them feel big and valuable. Somehow, shaming fiery women makes their lives more interesting, shaping passion and drive into some sort of distorted, half assed fairy tale.  .
I can be your character, I make a great one. But don’t tell stories that are boring.

Tell them about the time I cursed my ex and in violation, he broke both of his legs. Tell them how well acquainted I am with pain, how I wear my scars blaringly, on my sleeve. Tell them how I did that one thing, at that one place, in front of the wrong person. Tell them how I am only satisfied by the woods and mountains. Tell them I’ve been visited by aliens. Tell them about my tongue, tell them how I dance on tabletops and roll around in grass. Tell them I am feral and insane, it will only make you feel brighter and better.

Don't compromise your passion or condemn your own capacity to feel so greatly. Don’t condense or refine yourself. Let yourself spill out and overflow with vivacious ecstasy, with grandiose feeling and neon opinions.


The world is my subconscious, and I am a time travelling fairy. I am go go dancing in this mass hallucination. And I don't care if that makes me crazy.